Almost
by Xkylar
Summary: What if The Doctor decides to stop by to see the girl that so painfully resembles his Rose? How would he approach her? From both The Doctor and Hannah/Belle's POV.


**_Almost_**

The regular tempo of her burgundy Louboutins on the cool cement has a strangely calming effect. She slowly allows the tension in her muscles to loosen up, letting the last sweat dry off as the understanding breeze caresses her golden locks like a lover's hand. Drawing a wistful song from her memory, she mentally sets it to her background music, and becomes the thoughtful character from that movie she watched when she was an angst-ridden teenager lost in a whirling world of possibilities. Her thoughts wander as she holds herself tighter in the last tender rays of sunlight.

She's just left a client— one of her regulars, a pleasant man of fourty-five with a respectable job as a surgeon. Divorced for five years and two grown children. He's a gentle man who likes cuddling more than the actual sex. She's fine with that of course, as she's fine with most things. Sometimes she thinks that she has to be the luckiest girl around—to find a job that fits her as well as her own skin. Some people find the intimacy suffocating, yet she finds it fascinating: to be able to touch the deepest desires of a stranger, to trace the map into the heart of another being, to look into the mysterious segments of a soul, to _be_ their fantasy. Tucking a strand of unruly blonde hair behind her ear she smiled to herself. She's a modern Cinderella.

Mildly amused by her secret little joke, she doesn't pay much attention to the man leaning on the police phone box, his visage just as grim as the greyish-blue paint on the slim box. The man and his box make a strange pair, as if they are two lost souls thrust into an unfamiliar world, with only each other as company in the unfathomable expanse of the universe, over times of great joy and deeper sorrow, and in slow, lonely times like this. Misfits that have strayed far, far from home. But of course no one would know, or even being to understand their adventures, least of all a high-end London call-girl back from a session of work.

Yet that doesn't stop the strange man from feeling the familiar tug towards the girl, the cruel sensation of gravitation as he stares at the outline of her back, her gait so close to heart that he could almost recall her from his memory, forcing her to walk towards him in his mind's eye all those terrible, terrible nights before. He knows he shouldn't, that he'd be breaking every single rule the universe has set for him, that moreover he'd be breaking every single heartstring in his hammering hearts if he tries to—but oh, how can he not?

"H-Hey!" she heard the man call out from the shadows, his face under the veil of the vague afternoon shade. She stops in her tracks, not exactly shocked but rather curious. She thinks she'd probably seen a hint of brown in his hair, but she can't be sure. What she does notice is how lean the stranger must be under his floppy overcoat, which is obviously made for a larger man.

"Yeah?" She smiles, a kind, open smile, the one that she reserves for pleasant encounters with an unexpected old friend. But somehow she keeps her distance, feeling that the man wants his personal space to himself. Is he lost? Or maybe he's a tourist who doesn't know how to use the phone box? A wanderer. The words jump out to her suddenly, and her fine dark brows furrow a little, but are quickly loosened and instead raised quizzically back at the man in question.

"I was just wondering… are there any nice coffee shops down the road?" There's an air of lightness in his question, giving her the impression that it's not what he's meant to ask, but she thinks she sees a big grin on the stranger's face, a bright smile that manages to catch the last strands of natural hue before the streetlamps take over with their artificial lights. "Yeah of course, there's The English Rose just around the corner—one of my favorites."

The figure was completely still for a second, then it said, in a slightly tense but even voice, "Thanks!" She tilts her head in confusion, but shrugs the queer feeling off because she can't seem to put a finger to it. "Well, hope you'll have a great time!" she returns with a soft smile, nods, and turns her heels around.

…

When she reaches out her hand to motion for the taxi, a slight shudder passes through her fingertips, but she doesn't think much about it –it's just the chill of the London night.


End file.
